..."
"Well, get it, then; and don't be an ass."
"Yes, Sir." If the old man were not humoured he would have a fit,
perhaps!
And the old man sat quietly staring at the hyacinths. He felt happy, his
whole being lined and warmed and drowsed--and there was more to come!
What had the holy folk to give you compared with the comfort of a good
dinner? Could they make you dream, and see life rosy for a little? No,
they could only give you promissory notes which never would be cashed. A
man had nothing but his pluck--they only tried to undermine it, and make
him squeal for help. He could see his precious doctor throwing up his
hands: "Port after a bottle of champagne--you'll die of it!" And a very
good death too--none better. A sound broke the silence of the closed-up
room. Music? His daughter playing the piano overhead. Singing too! What
a trickle of a voice! Jenny Lind! The Swedish nightingale--he had never
missed the nights when she was singing--Jenny Lind!
"It's very hot, sir. Shall I take it out of the case?"
Ah! The ramequin!
"Touch of butter, and the cayenne!"
"Yes, sir."
He ate it slowly, savouring each mouthful; had never tasted a better.
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